


Bonfire Hearts

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Carnival, M/M, POV Third Person, Schmoop, Wordcount: 100-2.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grandpa Harley takes one warm, summer day to show Bro the multitudinous wonders of the county fair. Bro is unabashedly enthusiastic about every moment they're there, from the minute of their arrival through the end of the night, but he's the most enthusiastic about just how hands-down, no-holds-barred wonderful his date happens to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonfire Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first bonus round of the 2014 [Homestuck Shipping World Cup.](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/) The prompt was "Remember when Bro and Grandpa went on a date to a county fair and Grandpa won Bro fair game prizes?"
> 
> Bro/Grandpa is a ship I adore and I'm so happy to get to showcase it as something undeniably happy and genuine and alive. I'm also happy to present this shameless loveletter to the distilled essence of county fairs. I'm sort of sorry for the James Blunt derived title, but that song is pretty accurate to the mood I'm going for.

-

The first thing Bro wants to do, when they ride up, is marathon every damn carnival ride. 

He is twenty-four goddamn fucking years old and he will plop his ass into a flying swing like a man, and if anyone tries to ward him off otherwise he'd as soon spit in their face as listen. It's a pretty dinky fair, as things go, but Bro is judging on a scale of theme parks, the natural home to dangerous, metal-deathtrap rides for thrill-seeking dudes like himself. He figures they can hit every shoddily-constructed contraption in under three hours. 

Mostly, he's pleased as punch to be able to stride around the fairgrounds with his fingers clutching the forearm of the foxiest grandpa he's ever had the privilege to lay eyes (or other body parts) on the likes of. Mission one is terrifying carnival rides, but the sub-mission is definitely "maximum PDA." The best part is, ole Hass Harley doesn't put up a lick of protest. He's wearing that unforgivable khaki outfit with the rolled-up shorts that Bro loves so well, prowling around the fair like he's out on safari. He's as eager as Bro is to just have a rollicking good time, and goddamn, if that doesn't add to how fucking hot Bro's boyfriend is. 

(Not sugardaddy, not really, he ain't that much of a gold-digging tool, though he carefully stifles his protests when Hass shells out for ride tickets, watching the attendant measure out long, long strips and internally rubbing his hands together in glee. He is going to bribe at least one ride attendant into pushing the mechanisms past their advised settings, just let everybody wait.) 

They hit the majority of the rides within Bro's predicted timeframe – he's got a mind for that kind of math, master of figures as well as the sword thank you – and Hass only has to talk one manager-type down from kicking them out of the grounds when Bro sneaks a crack at the roundup's workings to make some definitely-not-factory-approved adjustments. He just wanted to tailor his county fair experience, okay, no need to get anybody's panties in a bunch. 

A bit after noon they break for lunch, gorging on every delicacy the fair has to offer. The event is agricultural shit by definition so there's a whole profusion of pies, and Bro swoons a little in his sneakers when Hass oh-so-politely challenges one of the matronly bakers' college-aged sons to a pie eating contest. A man after his own heart if he ever met one; if the thing throbbed any harder with his adoration he's pretty sure he'd end up dead. 

Hass wins, of course, and Bro swears his eyes mist up a little with pride.

Between them, they polish off an entire bird's worth of chicken barbecue only to chase it down with a funnel cake to share, sitting at a rickety picnic table in an area roped off for mealtime enjoyment with their legs crossing underneath. Bro takes a stab at sliding his foot up the inside of Hass' thigh while plucking off fanciful loops of fried dough covered liberally with powdered sugar, but he doesn't get far with his game. 

"Now, now," Hass chides, in that strong, booming voice that makes Bro wonder if he was an orator in another life (or another one of his half-dozen lives he's lived already, man is a tank). "We'll have time for that later! There's still a thing or two I'd like to show you while we're out and about." 

Bro shrugs, conceding the point without even cursory argument, his sneaker dropping to the grass and his hand dropping to the paper plate with their fried pastry. It's all gone save for the crumbs, but he runs his thumb around the rim of the plate, collecting the sugar and licking it off his fingers with broad stripes of his tongue. If Hass is watching him go at it, he only grins a little smugly around his sucking. 

The first thing Hass wants to show him, that they haven't seen already, is the livestock. Bro has seen the pies and the jam and the home-made cheese, but he hadn't given the long, low buildings at the back of the fairgrounds and away from the carnival area much of a look-see. They walk through, and mostly it's sheep and goats, prized pigs and cages full of chickens and rabbits. But Hass leads him past all of that with only a cursory look here and there for a particularly fine specimen of animal breeding, right to the very last stables in the row. 

Hass directs him to the most beautiful chestnut mare Bro has ever seen in his entire, goddamn, too-short life, and he swears he has found the one, this is it. 

(No one in the building even bats an eye when Bro reverently reaches out to let her smell his hand, stroke her nose, coo softly to the sweet, pretty girl and give not a damn that Hass just stands there grinning smug enough that his mustache pulls up and his eyes crinkle at the edges, because she's beautiful and she deserves kisses.)

By the time they stroll back out of the livestock buildings, it's late afternoon and the light is going orange and soft, the fairground only more crowded than ever. They meander through the carnival area linked arm and arm, just looking at everything and everyone. Bro always appreciated that Hass was a people-watcher, just like him – sometimes it's the most comfortable thing in the world for them to sit in a place, not speaking, fingers idly linked as they take in humanity passing by. 

They clear the larger rides and swing into an area thick with game booths, floating ducks in kiddie pools and pyramids of milk jugs with baseballs on hand to knock them down, even a stall with real bows and arrows, though that one doesn't have a damn prize to its name because some jackass thinks getting to shoot a bow is winning in and of itself. They come to the shooting gallery, and Hass' steps slow, each footfall becoming far too deliberate. 

"You're gonna do it," Bro says. 

It's somewhere between an accusation and encouragement, his eyes narrowing behind his shades with familiar certainty. 

"What kind of churlish, ungentlemanly cad would I be if I didn't win my boyfriend something at the fair?" Hass asks, and Bro knows that hell yes, it is on. 

He is fairly certain that if he tries to throw a shuriken at the targets, no matter how many he hits or knocks down, no carnival attendant is going to give him a prize. Bro is no hand with a gun and fuck 'em if they won't let him play by his rules, but he's all kinds of down for watching his foxy Grandpa prove he's still a smooth operator. 

"Pretty sure a lot of these games are rigged," Bro points out, conversationally, as they step up to the shooting booth. 

"Nonsense!" Hass replies. "They're structured. So long as you understand that what you are aiming at is weighted down inside and adjust accordingly, shooting a can off a rail is easier than shooting fish in a barrel." 

Bro shrugs, like he's just taking Hass at his word, but damn. _Damn._ Inside he's got all kinds of respect for casually dropping off little bits of trivia, because nothing is sexier than intelligence and Hass is sharp as a knife. He leans against the stall as Hass hands over his tickets to the man behind the counter, entirely ignoring the dirty look he earns for getting too close to the architecture. 

Even with the piddly little toy guns they use for the games, there's nothing like watching Hass lift a rifle between his strong hands, balancing it just so and staring down the sight. He's quick in his shots, spending only what time he needs in order to pinpoint his target before firing. The booth is one with targets of varying sizes and shapes painted in different colors, the colors corresponding to the tier of prize won by knocking it down.

Hass knocks down all three targets he picks out, three tiny red ones hardly bigger than thimbles and probably weighted with lead, for how stingy Bro expects a carnival to be. The attendant outright stares, mouth sagging open. It takes him a full two minutes to jump and grab Hass' prizes. 

Before he can get his arms weighted with oversized stuffed animals, Bro grabs Hass' face and kisses him full on the mouth. He's definitely earning another dirty look from the attendant, standing expectantly by with his arms full of enormous plushes, but it is hells of worth it for the firm hands planted right on his ass and the slight tickle of Hass' mustache when he pulls away. 

Bro goes home pleased as punch and covered in plush animals, and he sure as shit makes Hass sleep with them piled in on the bed later when they go to sleep. 

-

-


End file.
